This mysterious masked adventurer has been seen rappelling up and down the icy mountain cliffs, looking for climbers, hikers, and even Sylestis who have lost their way and are in need of rescue. Their small wings allow them to hover briefly, but they primarily rely on climbing ropes and grappling hooks to scale the difficult terrain. They have never been known to attack a living creature, only fleeing when threatened. They have a mysterious aura, and do not speak; those they have rescued have thanked them, only to be met with a nod of acknowledgement. The adventurer disappears without ever giving their name, accepting no reward for their rescues. Who are they, and why do they accept such dangers to save the lost ones?

Morschei The Glacial Sword

Morschei has many tales and accolaides. Anytime a child is lost in a white-out yet appears in his bed the very next day as though nothing happened the deed is attirbuted to Morschei.

When Bandits besiege a town and a mysterious snowstorm overtakes them, leaving their bodies frozen and cracked it is said that Morschei's Glacial Sword felled them.

When deep snow makes it too hard to travel and hunt or gather food, yet deer find their way within the towns sights, chased by wolves and beasts who dare not go further to finish the hunt, Morschei's name is whispered and praised.

What is known is that Morschei was once a man, who defended his village to the last. As his body iced over, blood pooling thick and syrupy, mixing with snow, Morschei swore with final breath to watch over it still.

In undeath, as a glacial spirit of protection and vengence, he watches, and he guards.

Tasked with bringing the first snow each year, and adding the sparkles of ice to Sylestia, Lady Neve works tirelessly with her guardian friends to keep winter a magical time of year for everyone!

...and effervescent she rested, intangible on the shrine that once was Wruen's and now was ruined; and quietly did she wait again to hear his heart beat in full timbre, hardly now a ghost's breath in the meek frost-capped waves that lapped at the isle's shoreline; and still to him she spoke in hazy mists, for as his keeper it was her duty to keep him present - alive - awake despite the hollow ribcage and encroaching cold. Pieces of the lake - of Wruen - had frozen over already, none stranger to Wraith's season, that of razor winds and decimating colds and named in hushed whispers as Winter.

And you are oh so cold, I know, I know, says Nymina to the waning tide, and you wish for the wheel to turn faster, turn away, turn 'til the pain can be borne again, I know, I know.

Just a little longer. For me.

And a lone wave reaches a quarter of the way up the northward shore, the one closest to the shrine, the highest since Faerina's autumn fell underneath the ravaging claws of rime without reason-- and in this his response is clear: I am trying. I am trying.


The days pass slowly. Morning to day to evening to night; morning to day to evening to night; morning to day to evening to night-- the heat seeps away into the earth or is devoured by the air, until eventually, inevitably, the lake is wholly encased in a layer of ice thick enough to dampen Wruen's murmurs entirely. And yet does Nymina keep Wruen awake - alive - present as much as she is able; even here, in the ice groaning; even here, in the morning gloaming.

Even here.

Even here.


Even here, notes Nymina, air pierced by children's screams intoning. And oh do they scream: raucous calls, sailing high into the ether, joyous and competitive and disruptive and all the same perfectly natural. They are simply another spoke in the wheel - this is not the first winter they have braved Wruen's frost-bitten shoulders, nor will it be the last, nor will there be a last.

But it is Wruen's first winter without his heart, and under these new strains it is only a matter of time until his spine buckles.

And it does, all too soon, buckle.

A new scream echoes over the ice, frantic for half of one jarring moment and silent for two. Then the same scream, again, now in a different voice, now sustained-- and now joined by another, and another-- and now the whole population of the town on the bank is herding the children back inland, all except for one lone man, fallen to his knees at the site of the entrance wound and utterly inconsolable.

Nymina is there, too, now.

She inspects the hole in the ice. The edges are jagged. Where the rest of the ice is a clear blue, this patch has been tainted white, interspersed with silt greys - a clear sign of Wraith's influence. There is a stray mitten clinging to the edge, handmade, knitted with cheery yellow wool. And beneath the ice, Wruen's newly-made watery eye gazes up at her; a ripple slips up onto the ice sheet and towards the man, but falls away before it can reach him. I tried. I tried.

I know. I know.

Then, she to the man: May I?

He does not respond. She tries again, corporeal now: "May I?"

The man starts violently, staring at her aghast, and behind her a collective whisper rolls through the crowd. She does not break her gaze away from Wruen. She does not say anything more.

"Please," the man sobs, water dripping from his eyes into Wruen's.

She kneels down next to him, slowly, gently, careful not to agitate the wound further. She takes the mitten from its perch and again, slowly, gently, drops it into the water.

The ice beneath her cracks once. The man scrambles backwards.

It cracks a second time. He is on his feet now, terror in his steps as he retreats to the safety of land.

It cracks a third time.

And then ever so slowly-- ever so gently-- a girl rises up from the water, one woolen yellow mitten clinging to the edge of the hole for purchase as she is pushed upwards from the depths; and with Wruen's help, she pulls the sodden girl up and out and back, the small thing trembling like a leaf in the wind and coughing for air; and before she delivers daughter to father she says to Wruen, You did so well. You did so well.

I tried my best, murmurs the water inset into the ice, still shaking, still trembling, just as the girl did in Nymina's arms. I tried my best.

Nymina rises to seek out the man, but he is back again, reaching out like castaway to lifeline to the child in her arms. Neither protest when he bundles her away to the safety of the bank, fading away into a net of bodies and movement and shouts of "Healer, healer!"

And favor finally finished, she breaks her gaze to look back at Wruen, as she always does, as she always will - she is his keeper after all, and the one to whom she is bound by duty and by soul, as it has always been, as it always will be - and says to him in a hazy mist one last time before they both rest, before they both fail to be present - alive - awake: I know.

I know.

Quinja remembers leaving the sea with her mother and brother to live with her father on the coastland. It was a harsh winter when they left but being from the sea she did not feel the cold like her father. When they arrived they found the small cabin cold and dark snow drifting in through the open door. He had died, lost in the blizzard, unable to find his way back from getting firewood. Mother and brother decided to return to the sea, but Quinja decided to stay to make sure no one would suffer the same fate. In winter she is a nomad, searching for the lost to bring them warmth and to bring them home. Her companion and her gear warm those she finds. Because she doesn't feel the cold, she has been able save many and the surrounding villages have claimed her as their Warm Winter Spirit. They know they can call upon her when a traveler becomes lost.

Every winter, the Solstice Fairies come down from the skies with a very welcome gift. People are reunited with their pets that have passed and are able to spend the day together before it is time for them to return home. To celebrate this occasion, people leave fermented berries and freshly baked cookies out as a thank you to the Solstice Fairies.

Lareira (meaning "hearth" in Portuguese) is the Hearth Spirit, the fairy who ensures your fireplace is always warm and heated. If the flames roar and crackle, it means Lareira has dropped by on a visit, and she is laughing. She dances in the fire, reveling in the protection from the harsh winter cold. Even though she is a beautiful and kind Spirit, she also has a temper. If she is irritated or angry, sparks will fly. The Snow Spirit, the grumpy old man who controls the winter storms, is her bitter enemy and his winds threaten Lareira and try to blow her out. The Hearth Spirit is a hero to many, because of her jovial warmth and the bright light she gives even when winter is at it's gloomiest and coldest. Lareira dances on, even when times are dark.

"Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell."
-Joan Crawford

Not much is known about this hero. Legends say that they are a warrior who had passed away after getting lost in a heavy blizzard, and their spirit still wanders the earth, determined to protect the innocent and defenseless. On dark and snowy nights, they can be seen guarding small villages from any enemy that tries to attack.